“I’ve come to raise a very limited and specific sort of hell, in a localized area. You found the three of us in close proximity because what I’m about to do would be likely to splatter on Mick and Sparrow if they’re nearby. Far from joining forces with them, I was hoping to get them out of range before I started.”

“That’s very noble of you,” said Mr. Lyle, his dark face exquisitely grave. It had been so long since he’d last spoken that I jumped a little.

Frances, equally grave, ignored him. I saw Mr. Lyle smile out of the corner of my eye. “If you think the text of all these messages from beyond is that you should help me,” Frances said to China Black, “then you could hide Mick and Sparrow, and tell me about anyone highly placed and crazy enough to be Tom Worecski on his horse.”

Beside me, Mr. Lyle made a dreadful sound. It was laughter, I realized, genuine merriment distorted by that broken voice. “You’re trying to force the world into a shape. You were a soldier. Do you know the saying ‘No battle plan survives contact with the enemy’?”

Frances turned to him, her face very still. “More so with some enemies than with others,” she said at last. “Yes. Point taken. In the meantime, shall I plan on help from you, or hindrance?”

“We cannot help you,” said China Black. She stood very straight by the fireplace, once again the stern, judging image. “We were warned, I think, of your coming. The loa never said we were to serve your cause.”

It was the word “serve” that did it. China Black had received no instructions. But Sherrea — or a voice in her mouth — had given some to me. They couldn’t be connected to this. If they meant anything at all.

The front doors rattled under three solid blows. Frances was on her feet, the butter knife held low in one hand. I’d risen, too, I realized, but my hands were empty, and I was wondering about other exits.

The door banged open, and a voice yelled, “China? Where are you?”

“Ti-so!” China said, her grim look melting. “Come quick!” The intruder appeared in the door, disheveled and wide-eyed. It was Sherrea. She wore a black tank top and purple harem pants that looked like a pair of collapsed dirigibles, and a gold-shot sash around her hips that flailed the air behind her. Her neck and arms were hung with amber.

“You see, I have found them for you!” cried China Black, looking nearly as smug as her dog had.

“Sparrow!” Sher crossed the room in a leap, stopped before me, and put a light hand on my arm. “Are you okay?”

I nodded, because something stiff in my throat kept me from speaking. Her hand slid off my arm.

“Gracias, mi hermana,” Sher said to China Black, beaming. “Was it a bitch to do?”

“Oh, no, they were wandering around the Night Fair like old women on market day.”